Ûrzudlukhud
by Marigold Faucet
Summary: Prompt fic. AU. The King is dead. Long live the King.


**Warnings **/ AU / character death

**Prompt **_for the_ Feels for Fíli Art and Fic Mini Contest / _#5 Fíli, King under the Mountain_

_This is un-beta'd._

—

**ÛRZUDLUKHUD  
><strong>Marigold Faucet

**Part I  
><strong>lunjûz

—

"God help us for we knew the worst too young."  
>—Rudyard Kipling, <em>The Light That Failed<em>

—

When he wakes, they tell him he is king.

Fíli does not see, his world kept dark by crisp white bandages and lingering infection. He is lucky his eyes were physically undamaged, or so Óin tells him as he gently prods at flaming, stitched wounds, but even that is no guarantee that his sight will be unaffected. Fíli wonders if it is a reflection or an omen of the king he will be, if he will be blinded in both body and soul to the needs of his people, so consumed by greed as those who ruled before him.

"You're lucky to have survived," Óin adds, but it is hard to feel so blessed. Not when Thorin is gone and Kíli is, Kíli is—

"Here," says Kíli, cold hands gently clasping Fíli's in his own. "I'm here."

It is Balin that delivers the news of Thorin's final moments, down on bended knee and head bowed in too great grief. Balin's words are rushed, strangled and dry, as if his voice might fail completely should he stop to draw breath for even a second.

"He was free of madness in the end," Balin says, as if it is any consolation. Fíli notes that he does not say _without pain_ or _at peace_, but then Balin has never been one to lie even if such falsehoods were to bring comfort. Fíli wants to ask if it was a good death, if somehow it was worth all this, but his tongue is heavy and his heart weighted by grief and sickness. He has no strength with which to say these things or to share his grief.

"Melhekh marad," says Balin. "Sigin furukh Melhekh."

"Long live the King," Kíli whispers, voice wet with the tears Fíli cannot cry.

"There is more," Balin says, voice tight and uncertain in a way Fíli has never known it. Balin has always been sure, even when Thorin was too far gone, lost in madness to care that Fíli and Kíli had survived the desolation of Lake-town. _We thought you were dead_, Balin had said, clinging to them both the way Thorin should have, and for all the Company could claim to know they had survived, the devastation wrought by Smaug in his revenge had been too great and too terrible to truly be certain of anything but death. Balin has always been certain, so why should he waver now?

"It's about Kíli—" Balin starts.

"I already know," Fíli snaps, the words said too softly and too weakly to hold any real fire. He reaches up to gently rub at the bruise in his left cheek, the swollen edge of it peeking out from beneath the bandages.

"I'm fine," Kíli mutters, fingers tightening around Fíli's own. "Stop being so dramatic."

But Kíli is not fine and Fíli has not forgotten the battle or the ruin left in its wake. He may be blinded, but that does not mean he did not see Kíli in those final few moments before his sight was robbed from him by the twisted, metal claws of Azog the Defiler. He does not forget. Not the sight or the smell or the sounds.

(He cannot forget.)

(But he wishes he could.)

"I'm sorry," Balin says, gently pressing a warm palm to Fíli's cheek. "For your loss."

"As I yours," Fíli croaks, because he is not alone in grief and it is a cold comfort, but it is a comfort all the same.

"It's not that bad you know," Kíli says after a while, when it is just them and the dying and the dead. "It could be worse." he adds with a light chuckle, as if sensing Fíli's utter disbelief. "You could be dead."

"Kíli…" Fíli rasps, all the guilt and the pain clawing at his heart held in one simple word. He feels immeasurably guilty, a hundred what-ifs and what-could-have-beens drifting through his mind like blood through water.

"It wasn't your fault," says Kíli softly.

"If I hadn't—" Fíli cries, voice cracking with the strain. It is all his fault, if he hadn't been so foolish as to think that he alone could put end to what Thorin could not, and in the end his pride has cost both him and Kíli dearly. "You—" Fíli chokes and oh Mahal, how he wishes he might cry if only to dislodge this aching pain settled in his chest. The words _saved me_ hang unsaid in the air between, but then Kíli has always been astute at reading between the lines.

"I did, didn't I?" Kíli smiles, smoothing Fíli's blanket beneath his fingers. "You should rest, otherwise how else will you ever sing my praises from atop the mountain?" He adds, the _suggestion_, light-hearted as it is, brokers little argument and Fíli is too exhausted to try. All he wants to do is sleep until Durin's Day comes again.

"O brave and mighty Kíli," Kíli starts to sing and the words are enough to bring a smile, small and uncertain to Fíli's lips. "With his magnificent beard did charge so majestically onto the battlefield…"

After that time passes in fitful bursts of clarity, each no more or less clearer than the last. They are like glimpses of sunlight, those brief flickers of light offered to one who is drowning beneath the crushing swell of the river's current. There are voices calling to him at times, foreign and familiar, and he wants to say something in return but there are never enough words to adequately respond before he is swept back into fever-bright dreams.

There is something terribly wrong with him, but he is too far gone to remember what.

He hears the voices talking about him from time to time, snatches of words like _fever_ and _infection_ and _fatal_ drifting through his subconscious. Fíli feels the bandages being lifted, the strong smell of elderberry, lavender and marigold wafting through the air. _Elderberry for infection_, Óin had explained when Fíli had still been lucid enough to understand. _Lavender to cleanse the wound and marigold to treat it_.

Understanding had not lessened the burn, the inflamed edges of rent and torn flesh painfully sensitive to every little touch. Óin had given him poppy's milk to dull the pain last time, but they dare not risk it now. _Now_, strong arms pin him to the bed, catching his flailing limbs in a vice grip and it terrifies Fíli. He doesn't understand; there is a moment of calm before his world explodes in agony and fire, the last few shreds of lucid though burnt away and he cannot _see_.

"Hold him!" Óin shouts from above, just as Fíli frees his right leg, barefoot kicking something soft. Even over the sound of screaming, Fíli can hear the sound of violent retching. "Khidezh hi!" repeats Óin when Fíli tries to kick again, a heavy weight settling over his legs and trapping them. He doesn't understand, he does doesn't understand _why_ it hurts and still he cannot see though he his eyes are open and wide, desperate and pleading—_why_?

"The infection is spreading," Kíli's voice supplies, the tang of copper and iron blooming in Fíli's mouth as he bites too hard on his tongue. "Weren't you listening?" Kíli asks. "They think you might die if it reaches your blood, but we both know that's not going to happen."

It is so loud, voices shouting at Fíli and telling him to be calm, but how can he be calm? He is burning in dragon fire, trapped beneath the mountain in the deep, deep dark and he is screaming for help. And help comes. Soft and gentle, a new voice drifts across the room, trickling down through the harsh orders barks of Khuzdul and curses. The world dims and quietens for a moment, a warm palm pressed tenderly to his brow. Fíli flinches away, a sharp sting cutting through the pain of fire.

"He hasn't much time," the voice says, the world beginning to slip away from Fíli. The voice comes again, words uttered in a foreign tongue that wash over him like water over stone, warm hands pressed gently to Fíli's face, anchoring him and keeping him alive in the dark. Fíli's back arches, straining against the weight that pins him and words come louder and louder until it is all he can here over the rush of blood in his ears.

A light shines then and even in this impenetrable dark, Fíli sees it clear and bright. He feels the way it moves, the ebb and flow pulsing through him and taking away the pain until it fades to nothing more than a dull ache. The light fades too, its loss keenly felt as Fíli is once again left, exhausted and alone, in the cold, pitch black, but the weight lifts and he can breathe once more.

"You're going to live, Fíli," whispers Kíli as Fíli slips into oblivion, but the words do not feel the comfort they are meant to be, rather a punishment and a curse.

Someone is talking, rambling about green fields and mountain halls, shifting from one tale to the next with no discernible order. A quill scratches quietly across parchment, creating a small sense of familiarity Fíli thought lost following the battle. It reminds him of afternoons spent in Ered Luin, Kíli attempting to detail every minute of his day as Fíli studied his history and politics at the behest of Thorin. There is a pang in his heart at the thought of Thorin, even more so at the thought of Kíli and the things that will never be again.

Fíli stretches slowly, testing each disused limb and hissing when the muscles start to cramp, riding each one out with gritted teeth. The voice hasn't seemed to notice and Fíli knows he has heard it before, spending a few muddy seconds to fumble through his memories until: "Bilbo?" Fíli asks, voice hoarse and he tries to open his eyes, only to find that they are still bandaged shut.

"Fíli?" Bilbo startles, the scratching stopping just as Bilbo reaches Fíli's bedside. "You're awake, really awake? Because you've been awake—but not really awake, which is entirely understandable given the circumstances…"

"I'm awake," Fíli assures. "I think?" he adds, suddenly uncertain, fingers nervously twisting his fingers in the furs that cover him. The bed is different, wider and softer than the makeshift cot Fíli has grown accustomed to, which means that they have moved him. "Are we in the mountain?"

"Yes—yes," Bilbo says. "I should send for Óin."

"Must you?" Fíli groans. Fíli has always been fond of Óin, but the fondness is heavily reliant on the manner of injury or illness that sends him to him.

"Afraid so," Bilbo chuckles. "Ori?" he asks quietly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the room and the door opening and shutting with a resounding clang. Bilbo returns to his spot by Fíli's bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," Fíli yawns, stretching his arms until each shoulder gives a satisfying pop. "Tired." he adds. "And you? I remember hearing that you were not unharmed during the battle."

"A concussion," Bilbo says, tone dismissive. "Nothing quite as terrible as yourself, or Kíli and Thorin—" he stops. "Sorry."

"It's—" Fíli frowns. "_Fine_." he says. "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry for your loss," says Bilbo, voice wavering slightly. "Thorin he…"

"Forgave you?" Fíli asks, noting Bilbo's hesitation. Balin had told him of the final words spoken between King and Burglar, the apologies made and the friendship owed to Bilbo acknowledged, his banishment rescinded. "There is no reason to be so worried, you are Khuzdbâh now. Had Thorin not declared you so, I would have done so myself." Fíli smiles, attempting to sit himself upright and grudgingly accepting Bilbo's help. "I'm curious as to why you have yet to return to The Shire though."

"It didn't feel right to leave without saying goodbye," Bilbo says with a messy exhale.

"I'm glad," Fíli says. "That you decided to stay." he adds, reaching out to pat Bilbo on the arm, silently thankful when his hand finds a stained velvet sleeve and the arm underneath. "You are always welcome here."

"I—" Bilbo sniffs. "Thank you."

"Fíli!" cries Bofur, the door swinging open with a loud smack as it hits the stone wall. "You're finally awake!" he cheers. "He is awake, right?"

"_He_ is," Fíli says, wishing he were able to roll his eyes. For a moment, there is a peace in his heart that is free from guilt and expectation, but it is fleeting and fickle, easily broken with a word.

"Begging your pardon your majesty," Bofur says and Fíli can almost see the sweeping bow in his mind's eye. Something cold settles in his heart at the reminder of his status as king and he is king, no matter how desperately he wishes to deny it. Yet these people, _his friends_ have known him since he was a dwarfling and now it is duty to rule over them as if he is somehow more important.

Fíli swallows, coughing harshly against the lump in his throat. "Are you well Bofur?"

"Aye, I'm well enough," Bofur responds, warm hand coming to rest on Fíli's shoulder. "Can't say the same for my hat."

"You should have seen it," Kíli laughs, startling Fíli. "Crying over it like a lost limb, I'm sure he would have buried it with full honours had Dáin or Balin let him."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Fíli coughs, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "How—" he asks, hiding his laughter with another cough. "How are the others?"

"Scrapes and bruises mostly," Bofur says, grin clear in his voice. "Nori broke his leg, though his sanity is the worst affected. No way he can escape Dori's mothering now."

"But everyone else, they're okay?" Fíli asks.

"Aye lad," Bofur says, serious. "You're the one who's had us the most worried, though I imagine things will be looking up now with you on the mend."

"I'll be the judge of that," calls Óin and Fíli groans, sinking back into his pillows with a grimace. "Ori tells me you're awake."

"Yes," Fíli huffs. "I _am_ awake."

"Or this could all be a dream," Kíli loudly whispers. "And you only think you're awake." he adds, poking Fíli in the face. "It would explain quite a lot."

"Do you hurt anywhere laddie?" Óin asks, poking at seemingly every muscle and bone in Fíli's aching body.

"Just my head," Fíli answers. It is nowhere near the overwhelming agony of before, Óin explaining that fever and infection had caused the wounds to become inflamed and oversensitive. It was only at the intervention of an Elf, the red-headed captain who had captured them in Mirkwood, that the infection did not spread to his blood and kill him. Óin carefully removes the bandages, lightly cleaning the wounds and checking Fíli's eyes, happy with what he sees. Fíli still cannot see anything, but instead of black like he expects, the world is too-bright and out of focus. "A good sign." Óin says, wrapping clean bandages over his still healing wounds.

"Is it bad?" Fíli asks, raising his fingers to brush against the fresh bandages.

"It will scar," Óin replies. "The Elf's healing limited the damage, but even she admits she is not the most skilled of her kin." he says. "I'll be back tomorrow to check on you."

Fíli mutters a few curse words, Kíli laughing when Óin throws back: "I'm deaf, not stupid laddie!"

Bilbo and Bofur both stay, Ori being called away to attend Balin and Dáin who are acting as regent in Fíli's stead. It is both a comfort and an annoyance for Fíli; knowing that Erebor is well-looked after, but feeling useless for not being able to aid in any way and then guilty for being glad of it.

There have been a few times in his life that Fíli had wished to be born the second heir, as Kíli was, or to simply have not been anyone's heir at all. Every expectation felt like a burden at times and while he knows his childhood was freer than Thorin's, confined to Erebor's halls and groomed from birth to one day be king, it had still felt as if he was trapped on a preordained path with no option to take another road. Yet Thorin always had a way of easing those burdens away, even if he was guilty of adding to them more often than not, telling tales of Erebor before the Sack and each time he would tell him _one day you will be king and you will understand_. But Fíli doesn't understand, cannot see the beauty so described to him through song and verse. The day has long has long since passed and he doesn't _understand_.

He wonders what Thorin would think if he saw it now, an empty throne and broken heir who does not wish to take it.

"Fíli," greets Balin. It has been a week since Fíli first awoke. He has yet to truly speak with Balin since the first night after the battle. He has spoken often with the rest of the Company save Dwalin, for who apologies and excuses always seem to come from the mouth of another.

He thinks he might be thankful that Dwalin has not come to see him, quickly learning that there is much he can no longer do for himself, resenting the fact that others must feed and clothe him. Fíli finds that he prefers Bofur's help over all others, there is no pity from Bofur and by extension Bombur and Bifur. Bofur confesses that he once had to do much for Bifur after his accident, the axe causing frightful tremors that made holding a spoon or fork nigh impossible without another hand to steady it. Kíli helps too, from time to time, raising or lowering Fíli's hand when he dares to feed himself.

"Your majesty," another voice greets, familiar and yet unfamiliar all at once.

"Balin…" Fíli smiles, wracking his brain to place the other voice. "And Dáin."

"Aye," Dáin affirms.

"How are you feeling?" Balin asks, taking the empty seat by Fíli's bedside while Dáin remains standing behind him.

"Tired," Fíli frowns, frustration creeping into his voice. "Sore." he adds. "Just as I have told every other person to ask me this question."

"I see some things have not changed," Balin chuckles. "Your patience for medical treatment has always been rather low."

"There is much we need to discuss," Dáin interjects, voicing Fíli's dread.

And discuss they do, though it is more Balin and Dáin relaying the events of the battle, the aftermath and the work that follows still, than any real discussion. Fíli just sits and listens, his heart twisting painfully with grief even as relief spreads through him when Balin tells him they could not wait to hold the funerals, tradition preventing them from doing so.

"Who—?" Fíli asks, throat tight.

"Dwalin acted as amradshomak in your stead," Balin answers, a comforting hand coming to rest on Fíli's shoulder as he nods his approval.

Dáin then details how Bard, the Dragon-slayer had lain the Arkenstone upon Thorin's breast and how it was entombed with him. There is a pause, perhaps waiting for Fíli to voice his dismay or attempt to pry open Thorin's tomb to claim the accursed gem for himself, but Fíli is glad to know the stone is gone from sight. It has bought nothing but despair upon them all.

Dáin takes his silence with an approving grunt, telling Fíli how Thranduil had returned Orcrist and placed it upon the tomb before taking his treasure and departing with a large number of his host, leaving a few of his kin behind to aid in the treatment of their still wounded brethren and allies. Bard however remains, begging shelter from the coming winter in return for help in rebuilding Erebor until they are able to inspect the remains of Esgaroth and Dale, so that might rebuild their desolated cities.

"We have promised them aid in that endeavour," Balin says, pausing again as if waiting for Fíli to disagree again. "And the gold needed to do so." he adds when Fíli offers no objection. "Smaug amassed a greater hoard than we thought."

"There is another matter," Dáin says, after they have finished detailing the restoration efforts and the inventory of their food stores. "You are king, Fíli and when your sight has returned you will take the throne."

Fíli draws in a shuddering breath, willing the sudden pounding of his heart to cease. "And what if my sight doesn't?"

"Óin is confident that it will, especially after the intervention of the Elves," Dáin replies. "I care little for them, but they have done us a great service in keeping you alive."

"You didn't answer my question," Fíli counters, feeling panicked and angry and distressed. "Can you tell me that a blind king will be accepted?"

"You are Thorin's sister-son and heir," Dáin growls as if that is enough to assuage all of Fíli's doubts.

"All the more reason to believe me ill-suited to the throne!" Fíli shouts, respect be damned. "The madness that took Thorin, what is to say that I will not suffer the same fate?"

"You don't believe that do you?" Balin asks, horror and pity clear in his voice, hand tightening on Fíli's shoulder.

"Besides everyone knows _I_ was the mad one," Kíli interjects.

"How can you be so sure that I won't?" Fíli asks, disbelieving because they all _believed_ Thorin would not and their _faith_ had nearly driven them to _war_. "Thorin was strong and in the end he could not resist—"

"Enough!" Dáin bellows. "The line of succession is clear." he states. "You have lost much, but do not let your grief and fear get the better of you—you are an heir of Durin, it is time you started acting like one."

"He seems nice," Kíli comments, Dáin sweeping out of the room with a huff, the door slamming shut behind him. "A bit grumpy though, I can see why Thorin liked him so much."

"I know you don't think you're ready," Balin says after a moment.

"He's ready," Kíli says, poking Fíli's bandages and prodding at a still tender gash. "He just doesn't think he is."

"I'd be worried if you thought you were," Balin continues. "But I believe that you will be a good king."

"I've been telling him so for years," Kíli sighs, exasperated.

"Get some rest," Balin says when Fíli offers no response.

"Why don't you want to be king?" Kíli asks, barely waiting for Balin to close the door behind him.

"I never said that," Fíli replies through gritted teeth.

"You didn't have to," Kíli sing-songs.

"It doesn't feel right," Fíli sighs after a moment. "Thorin led us on this quest, he should be the one sitting on the throne." he chokes, desperate to keep from crying. "Not me."

"Thorin is dead," Kíli states, all humour from his voice gone. "You survived Fíli."

"And that qualifies me to be king?" Fíli cries, mindful of how loud his voice sounds in the empty quiet of the room and it would do him ill to draw any prying ears towards his door. "By Mahal Kíli! The fact I survived was because of your sacrifice!" he whispers harshly. "Is that the type of king I'll be? The kind who lets others give their lives so that I may rule until all my people are slain in my name?"

"You didn't _let_ me do anything!" Kíli shouts. "I made my choice and now you have to live with it!"

"I don't want to!" Fíli shouts back. It had been an old contest between them, both shouting louder than each other in an argument until Dís or Thorin would switch them both about the ears and demand silence from both of them.

"You have no choice!" asserts Kíli. "Would you leave 'Amad all alone?" he asks, just as angry as Fíli feels. "Have her return to Erebor only to find that it is no longer a home, but a tomb for both her sons?"

Fíli mouth opens, once—twice, clicking shut as he thinks of a way to respond. He wants to tell Kíli he does not care even if it means lying, but no wards come, just a sorrowful rush of air. "Kíli…"

"I'm dead Fíli," Kíli says, the words harsh and angry. "Don't waste the rest of your life wishing it were different."

Fíli's eyes sting when the tears start to fall, absorbed by the bandages that cover them still but he cannot stop the sharp, wracking sobs that rock through his body. He does not sleep that night (or is there still sunlight on the mountain?), instead he cries and cries until there is nothing left in him.

When Óin comes to check on him, his bandages are still damp and eyes painfully raw. Fíli is grateful when Óin makes no comment, only clucking his tongue as he inspects Fíli's still-blind eyes. _Soon_, he says. Soon the bandages will come off and soon Fíli will be king. He doesn't feel very king-like, hair in disarray and braids a mess. Kíli had always done his braids.

Ori comes by after, appointed by Dáin to relay the day by day running to Fíli so that he will be well informed when the time comes to take to the throne. It is awkward at times, Ori having been Kíli's friend more than he was ever Fíli's, but the company is appreciated. Balin comes by also, when he can find the time and often with Dáin in tow, asking advice on important decisions that Fíli doesn't wish to make. He knows Thorin raised him to be king, knows that this is what he was born to be but hadn't expected to be so young. He hadn't thought he'd have to do this without Kíli.

(Even if Kíli is still here.)

Yet even with all the work that comes to him, Fíli is more often than not left alone. He passes the time by practicing with his recently _procured_ dagger, given to him by a desperate Nori who had hobbled into the room on crutches in a frantic effort to escape from Dori. Fíli had agreed to let Nori hide on the condition that he give him a dagger, desperate himself to do something other than sit in bed or wander aimlessly around the room. He hasn't been able to bring himself to venture outside the room, though Bofur and Bilbo have both offered on more than one occasion to guide him through Erebor's halls.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Kíli cries when Fíli over swings the blade, hitting the stone bed post with a clang. "Look where you're swinging that thing, you could have killed me." he says, causing Fíli to grimace. "Right, sorry."

There is a knock at the door, interrupting whatever biting response Fíli might have had. "Enter." Fíli calls.

"Should you be out of bed?" Dwalin asks, surprising Fíli. He expected Ori or maybe Bofur, but not Dwalin. Dwalin doesn't visit, hasn't visited once.

"I'm blind not paralysed," Fíli snaps. "Why are you here?"

"I…" Dwalin hesitates. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I thought you were avoiding me," Fíli states.

Dwalin sighs. "I was."

"What changed?" Fíli bites, voice tight with anger. He is not angry at Dwalin, not really. He is more angry at himself, convinced that his part in Kíli's death is what kept Dwalin away. He is sure they do not know the truth, none have asked though he can sense the question lingering after every mention of Kíli's name.

"Balin beat some sense into me," Dwalin says, the fabric of his sleeve rustling as he rubs his arm.

"But why didn't you come sooner?" Fíli asks, brushing his fingers against his cheek. The small sting of a still-there bruise spreading beneath his touch.

"I felt guilty," Dwalin says, moving to sit on the bed. Fíli follows the sounds of his movements, not expecting _that_ answer. "Like I'd failed Thorin and Kíli." he adds. "Like I'd failed _you_."

"But you didn't," Fíli stutters.

"Guilt isn't always rational," Dwalin sighs. "As I suspect you know."

"I _am_ guilty," Fíli says and it feels freeing to admit it so openly.

"No you're not!" Kíli shouts.

"I saw what happened," Dwalin says. "To you and Kíli."

"Then you know I speak the truth," spits Fíli.

"I know there is nothing you could have done," Dwalin says gently. "You could not have prevented that hazug from claiming your brother's life any more than I could."

"But he died for me," Fíli whispers. "He died for _me_."

"You would have done the same," Kíli says.

"I should have protected him," Fíli continues.

"Fíli," Dwalin says, moving to kneel before him. "I made an oath to Thorin on the day he became king that I would protect him with body and sword." he says. "And when his sister-sons and heirs were born, I swore that same oath to them—I swore to you and Kíli that I would keep you safe."

"I never knew," Fíli says, voice cracking with emotion.

"Would you tell me that I have failed?" Dwalin asks.

"No," Fíli breathes, but it is more a realisation of himself than an assurance to Dwalin. "You have not failed."

He lets Dwalin hug him, feeling warm for the first time since they had dragged him limp and bleeding from the battlefield. He doesn't cry, glad for that small mercy, and he can almost hear Kíli laughing when Dwalin does, but Fíli says nothing. It would be cruel of him to mock Dwalin for such a thing.

"You're going to ask me what I remember," Fíli asks after a moment. "Aren't you?"

"Aye," Dwalin nods, letting go of Fíli when someone knocks lightly on the door. "That'll be Ori."

"Why do you need to know?" Fíli asks, feeling suddenly desperate.

"His final moments should be recorded," Ori says. Fíli knows he is setting up on the table, the same ritual repeated day after day after day, but this feels endlessly worse than inventory reports and surveys of intact mining structures.

"But I didn't see," Fíli says. "I couldn't see." he adds, throwing an ill-aimed fist towards Dwalin who easily deflects the blow. "You said you saw."

"I didn't see everything," Dwalin explains.

"You need to tell them," Kíli says gently, cold hand coming to rest on Fíli's shoulder.

"Fine," Fíli exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "_Fine_."

"I'm ready," Ori says. "When you are of course."

So, Fíli tells them, Ori's quill scratching away as he neatly pens every grief stricken word that pours from Fíli's mouth. He tells them how he saw Thorin fall, Azog poised to make the final, fatal blow and how Fíli had not thought of his own life in that moment, how he had thought only of ending Azog the Defiler. Fíli had only managed a glancing blow across Azog's side, failing to cause a fatal wound and sealing his own death. He had been a fool and Azog had taken advantage of that, pulling Fíli off the ground to face him. Azog had taunted him, spitting vile words in Black Speech, his twisted metal claw coming to rest at his cheek.

_I will take your eyes_, he had said. _Let the last thing you see be the death of your precious Oakenshield_.

That was when Kíli called out for him, horror in his voice and then he had charged Azog with his sword raised high. Fíli had screamed at Kíli, begging him to run but Kíli had ignored him, swinging his sword to hit the exposed flesh of Azog's arm. Azog had screamed, an angry, painful thing that had ripped through Fíli's soul. That was when Azog had thrown Fíli, metal claw tearing through across his face and blinding him with blood and agony.

Fíli's voice falters as he details what happened next, how he had heard the sound of Kíli's armour buckling and his scream as the blade pierced his chest. Azog had thrown him away too, Kíli's body slamming into Fíli's and head cracking against Fíli's cheek hard enough to bruise. Fíli tells Dwalin and Ori how he had lain there, too agonised to move and listened as Kíli choked on his own blood, breath dying in his lungs.

"He saved me," Fíli says, ignoring the way Dwalin chokes back tears and Ori breathes wet and heavy.

"Thank you," Kíli whispers.

There is still much Fíli needs to do and his reluctance to take the throne still needs to be addressed, but there is something he must do first, two people that deserve a goodbye. He asks Dwalin to lead him to the tombs, the walk longer than expected and each step is dogged by hushed whispers and _your majesty_s.

Dwalin guides him to Thorin's tomb first, directing his hands to the carved Cirth that rests just above Orcrist's hilt.

"Thorin Thráinul," Fíli whispers, fingers tracing the runes."Melhekh undu 'Abad."

He doesn't say the words out loud, doesn't give voice to all the things he wishes to say. Instead, he bows his head, mindful of Dwalin who stands nearby (it is not for Dwalin to bear his grief), and prays. Prays to Mahal. Prays to Thorin. Prays for guidance so that he may face what is to come with all the strength a son of Durin should possess.

(_I'm sorry,_ he says. _It wasn't supposed to end this way_.)

"Kíli—" Fíli starts, but Dwalin simply grabs his wrists and turns him to the left. Fíli brushes his hands across the smooth marble, fingers finding the cool edges of the mail that had failed to save Kíli from his fate. Kíli guides his hand across the tomb and Fíli's face crumples when he finds what he is looking for. "Kíli Dísul, rayad Durinul." he sobs.

"Does 'Amad know?" he asks, because he realises now that he has sent no letter or tried to tell her the course of events in his own words. It is the least Dís deserves.

"Ravens were sent," Dwalin affirms. "She will know."

"Óin said my bandages are to come off today," Fíli says suddenly, heart tight as he runs his finger down and up _kam_ over and over again. "Did you know that?" he asks. "I know I should be glad, but I know what it means and I'm _scared_."

"You think Thorin wasn't scared when he was made king?" Dwalin asks, voice soft. "He lost his grandfather, his father and his brother in one day." he says. "I'd never seen Thorin so lost, so afraid and I see that in you now."

"I—" Fíli chokes.

"No one thinks less of you Fíli, for your fears and your grief," Dwalin says, giving Fíli's shoulder a small squeeze. "But know that we are here, whenever you need us."

"See," Kíli says, putting his hand over Fíli's and pressing it to his epitaph. "You won't be alone." he says, fingers tightening around Fíli's own. "That's what really frightens you, you think Thorin was alone and you're scared you'll be alone too."

Fíli chokes out a harsh sob, collapsing in on himself as he kneels between the tombs of his uncle and his brother. Kíli doesn't let go of his hand, holding him through the pain.

"But he wasn't alone," Kíli says. "And you will never be alone, not when there are people to love you."

"I miss him," Fíli sobs.

"I know," Kíli and Dwalin both say.

"I never thought it would be like this," says Fíli, voice strained as grief twists his insides painfully. He presses his free hand to the floor, bending when he can no longer hold himself upright and shudders as another barking sob pulls from soul.

"You're going to be a great king, Fíli," Kíli says. "But you've got to let go, you've got to stop looking back."

"I don't think I can," Fíli whispers.

"You can start by opening your eyes," Kíli says, letting go of Fíli's hand. "By accepting who you are."

"Zâyungi zu," Fíli says, stumbling back to his feet.

"I love you too," Kíli smiles.

"I'm so sorry," Fíli cries, pressing his forehead to the tomb. "Goodbye nadadith."

Later, Óin removes the bandages in Fíli's dimly lit room. Dwalin stands at his side, the rest of the Company behind him as they eagerly await for their king to see them. Fíli blinks, once—twice, shaking the lights from his eyes and it takes a while for everything to come into focus, but he can finally see the way forward now. He knows who he wants to be and what needs to be done.

He is Fíli, son of Dís, King under the Mountain.

He is not alone.

And he does not look back.

—

**Khuzdul:**

'**amad **/ mother

**amradshomak** / guard of the dead

**hazug** / monster

**kam **/ k (khuzdul rune name)

**khidezh hi **/ hold him

**khuzdbâh **/ dwarf-friend

**kíli dísul** / kíli son of dís

**lunjûz** / dusk

**melhekh marad **/ the king is dead

**melhekh undu 'abad** / king under the mountain

**nadadith **/ little brother

**rayad durinul** / heir of durin

**sigin furukh melhekh **/ long live the king

**thorin thráinul** / thorin son of thráin

**ûrzudlukhud **/ sunlight

**zâyungi zu** / I love you


End file.
